Here, the bodies of children. They died at dusk.Instead of bread, fed stones from the sling.Kept from shelter until their bodies stiffened.The sun failed to keep them warm.And she, the greatest sun, could not love them,because of the stones, because of the serpent.—translated from Waldo Williams’ “The Dead Children,” Volume 65, Issue . . .
Read MoreWinter was standing behind him.It imitated his shadowAnd considered itself a tree.It was getting skinny.It felt cold.You’re like a wooden coat hanger prepared to move home.The hat and the four assembled seasonsWouldn’t follow you.They would remain in paper boxes, deepIn their sleep, dreamless and naked.The cat would stay to guard the home.—from . . .
Read MoreCourtesy of Chris Buhalis If you’re gone for good—if you’re history –I’ll know to search along rivers.I’ll look for bones, trace foundations,piece old shapes from shards. But time will take those, too.Strangers arriving with children will runthe length of the ruins for hide-and-seek,squeals of living delight.—from “Always Beside a River,” Volume 65, . . .
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